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Tasmanian devil?

My daughter officially hit 18 months this past week.

It's funny how quickly one forgets the antics of the previous child. After my son turned two, I frequently said, "Terrible twos? Twos are nothing! What about the terrible 18 month-olds!"

During her well-baby visit, she ran back and forth between the door and my lap in the exam room about 47 times.

She stopped 24 times to remove her diaper. On the 25th time, I just left it off, partially because there was no stick left in the tabs and part because I was so tired of trying to reattach it while she ran.

She inspected the power cords, making sure they were properly UL listed. She giggled (thankfully, there was no screaming).

She tried to climb the rolling stool (and then fell -- that was where the screaming started).

She opened every single cupboard and drawer. Twice.

And she banged on the wall with her little fists.

All in the matter of about 10 minutes. I adore our physician, but when she walked in and looked at me like I was nuts to let my daughter run around without a diaper I simply said, "You have no idea what 10 minutes can do."

She does, though. She has three compared to my two. She knows.

Then she correctly termed this stage -- the Tasmanian devil stage.

I keep reminding myself this is not permanent. In a few months, she will calm down.

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